Dun Taras came into view as the road wound between two hills, the fortress’ dark walls a brooding shadow against the countryside. Veradis rode beside Geraint, their warriors spread in a column behind them. A cluster of prisoners walked at the centre of the line, hands bound and heads bowed. Thirty men, survivors of the uprising, heading towards Rhin for her judgment.

Which is unlikely to be merciful, judging by her mood when I left Dun Taras.

Geraint, however, was in fine spirits, laughing and joking as they approached Dun Taras.

Veradis was in the grip of a dark mood, the deaths of his men weighing heavily upon him.

Thirty-eight men dead. And what honour in that death? Slain by overgrown cows. More men lost than in the battle of Domhain Pass, where we fought against a warband ten thousand strong.

He looked at the pouch hanging from his belt, filled with the draig teeth he had collected from a dozen of the fallen. Men who stood with me from the beginning, who stood against the draigs and giants of Tarbesh. Nathair’s first battle, his first victory. Nathair’s Fangs, we called ourselves. It was my fault. I should not have marched them into that village unprepared. I should have sent scouts first. I have become over-confident, arrogant, thinking my men and shield wall are unbeatable. This proves we are not.

Rhin was waiting for them in Eremon’s old chambers. Veradis remembered the room all too well; it had been where they had fought the old battlechief Rath and his shieldmen, where his friend Bos had died. He avoided looking at the flagstones where Bos had fallen, scrubbed of blood now, but there was still a faint outline, if you looked hard enough. Blood always leaves a stain.

‘Well, Geraint, I can tell by your grin that my problems with rebels are ended,’ Rhin said coolly. Her silver hair was braided with gold thread, spilling across one shoulder, the paleness of her skin enhanced by her sable gown.

‘Yes, my Queen,’ Geraint said. ‘The rebellion is finished. None escaped – a few hundred dead, and thirty prisoners await your justice.’

Rhin raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Something to look forward to, then. Come, celebrate with me.’ Veradis was handed a cup by a servant and was pleasantly surprised to see that it was a cup of wine, not the mead or ale that was so popular in this part of the world.

‘To strong men that will always do my bidding,’ Rhin said, lifting her cup, chuckling. Veradis wasn’t sure he wanted to drink to that, but the wine smelt good and his throat was dry after their long ride.

Rhin enquired of the battle, shrewd as always, asking about tactics and the decisiveness of the conflict. How many dead on both sides, how many survivors? Were the leaders dead? Her eyes bored into him as Veradis told of the auroch stampede.